Together in Paris
by PalladiumPoison
Summary: Elizabeth's dream becomes a reality when she and Booker finally make it to Paris, but when Booker starts to unravel, will her dream survive? Is there trouble in paradise?


"Why Paris?" The sudden question shatters the tense and growing silence between the two, the monotonous view of clouds having lost its conversational value long ago.

"Well…because I've never been there." Elizabeth responds, leaning over the controls of the airship and idly pushing a stray bullet casing around. Wherever Booker went, bullet casings seemed to follow like a trail of bread crumbs and death.

"You've never been a lot of places, that doesn't mean they're all great." He responds and there's sourness to his tone that makes Elizabeth grimace. He's far too dower for anyone's good, especially his own.

"Well Paris is going to be great. I've seen all the pictures and read _all _the books. It'll be the most beautiful…_magical _place. You'll see." She expects him to simply let it go as he so often does in favor of a gloomy silence, but instead he snorts and turns away from the control console.

"You know what's in Paris? Rude, fast talking people, and…a big scrap heap of metal, and bread, and lots of cheese. You'll get fat." He's settled on a pseudo-bench over stuffed with padding, draping himself over the entirety of its structure with the unsettling pop and crack of overworked bones and joints.

"Fat?" Is all Elizabeth can reply with, staring over at him. She shares his dream with him and all he has to say is that she'll get _fat_, _"_What exactly is wrong with you, Booker?" He doesn't respond, slowly rolling his head backwards until it rests on the padding beneath him, "I asked you a question!"

"I heard you." He keeps his head down, throwing his arm over his eyes.

"I want an _answer_. We're going to Paris; this is what we did all this for! You should be excited!" Before she even knows what she's doing, she's grabbing his forearm and tugging roughly to draw his attention. In response to her actions, he cries out, gripping his shoulder tightly and pulling his arm from her gingerly.

"I'm _fucking thrilled_, Elizabeth. I'd jump for joy, but if I did that, I'd probably rattle considering I'm full of more metal than this airship. You may have gotten to hide and scavenge, but I had to do all the hard work. So if it's not too big of an _inconvenience _for the Paris Princess, I'd like to get one moment to sleep. _Just one!_" He's yelling and being overly cruel, but the agony ringing through every muscle, joint and bone in his body is enough to make him want to curl up and die. He feels old and raw, the combined impact of his nearly forty years of constant battle suddenly crashing down on him in this one moment of stillness, "Please." He just barely mutters afterwards, not wanting to look at her. He knows the expression she's bound to have. Hurt, surprised, angry. He doesn't like that expression on her; it reminds him far too much of a different brunette of a different time.

He expects her to storm away from him and settle in the dressing room towards the back of the cockpit, but instead he feels her weight settle beside him.

"Elizabeth, I—" Her petite hand rests on his forehead, effectively silencing him as he stares up at her.

"Thank you." Booker feels that his breath has left him, and a sudden realization strikes him. He's never been genuinely thanked before, by anyone for anything. Even as a private investigator and every occupation beforehand, he has never been truly appreciated. After so long without recognition for any work, no matter how taxing, he doesn't quite know how to respond. So he doesn't, simply keeping his skeptical eyes on her for a long, tense moment before she smiles and leaves him.

She understands.

-x-

After so long without rest, Booker finds the pain upon waking to be thousands of times worse than the constant thrum of throbbing aches he'd been experiencing before. Taking in a deep breath to yawn makes his cracked ribs protest loudly. Shifting his legs to roll onto his side causes the muscles in his thighs to burn from overuse as well as the various bullet wounds to add pangs of agony on top of the burning ache. Lifting his hand to rub the sleep, crust and dried blood from his sunken and tired eyes makes his fractured and dislocated bones sting similarly to everywhere else on his body. In short, nothing on his abused body _doesn't _hurt and it voices so loudly with a chorus of popping joints.

He lets out a sound he doesn't quite recognize. Not quite a sigh, not quite a moan or groan, and not quite a scream, but somewhere in the middle of all three and he freezes in an odd, half twisted to the side position on the bed. He knows he must choose one position or another, but the prospect of moving another inch only discourages him from doing so.

"Bonsoir, Monsieur Dewitt." The throbbing in his head makes him think he's not quite hearing whoever's speaking correctly and he turns his head ever so slightly to see Elizabeth walking towards him with a tray of something held in her hands.

"What'd ya-say t'me?" He asks her, his voice hoarse and weak. He barely recognizes it as his own voice. She chuckles and settles in the ornate chair by the bed, setting the tray on the bedside table.

"It means good evening." She answers, grabbing something from the tray and setting it beside him on the bed before carefully setting him back into a position on his back.

"What're y'doin'?" Booker frowns at the sound of his words. They're dragged together and slurred, combined with being weak and hoarse. It's not an appealing sound.

"I have to change your bandages. You've had those on for quite some time." He grunts in response, looking down at his body for the first time since awakening. He's more bandage than man at this point, nearly every square inch either encased in a cast or wrapped in soiled bandages.

"More…more…" He growls with frustration, knowing how the words are supposed to fit together, "M're band'ge than…" He gives up on his statement, throwing his head back in frustration into the down pillows.

"Shh…" Elizabeth murmurs, unraveling the bandage from his bicep, tossing it aside into a bin already about half full with soiled bandages, "You're coming off of a pretty strong pain killer. The doctor said you'd have some trouble coordinating speech and movement for a few hours after the sedative filters out of your system."

"Gimme'mo drugs!" He exclaims preferring sleep over whatever circle of Hell he's currently lying in. She doesn't indulge his outburst with a response, continuing to unravel and wrap his bandages until he's wrapped in only clean bandages, "How long-I bi'out?" It takes her a moment to put together his question before she can answer.

"Almost four days." When Booker sits up suddenly, every part of his body cries out in agony but he shoves the pain down in favor of shock, staring at her.

"Four days?" He seems to have broken through the haze of the sedative for a moment, gripping the edge of the bed and pulling himself toward the edge, already in search of his clothing and weapons.

"Booker, stop!" Her hands are on his shoulders and it concerns him that she can so easily pin him down, "You haven't eaten or drank anything in four days. You're going to be weak when you stand up. You have to take it slow and let me _help _you." He sighs heavily, settling back a bit on the bed.

"Get me…" He slows down and focuses on forming his words, "Get me my clothes." She nods, scurrying to the other side of the room to a small stack of clothes and setting them down next to him.

"Your old clothes were kind of…full of blood. And bullets. So while you were sleeping I went out and bought more." She seems nervous as she speaks, rambling a bit, "I hope they fit, you're pretty skinny for being as tall as you are. It was kind of hard to find shirts that were long _and _small." He realizes she's waiting for his opinion on the clothes, and he reaches for the aforementioned shirts to examine them. They seem to be made of a very fine material, the fabric feeling soft and smooth under his fingers. They all seem to be an odd pastel shade, standing as quite a contrast to the usual browns and blacks he prefers. I flick my eyes to meet hers, arching a brow.

"I know it's a little…different, but I think you'd look good in something that wasn't so dark. I read that wearing lighter colors can lift your mood and state of mind. Plus—" She reaches into the pile of clothes, retrieving a familiar and tattered piece of clothing, "I salvaged your vest. It took a lot of work, but I got the bloodstains out, and it'll look really good with the new shirts."

"Calm down, I'll wear't." He responds, having to concentrate to reach his hand out and grab the right area, pulling his vest from her hands, "Thanks." Elizabeth sits excited beside him, watching him slowly shrug on the peach colored shirt before following it with his well-worn vest. He manages to tug the trousers up to his thighs before using her support to stand and pull them up the rest of the way and button them easily.

"They're a little loose…I'll have to get them tailored. Or you need to eat more." She looks him up and down before nodding, "You know what, I think that you just need to eat more. I'm going to fatten you up."

"Oh?"

"They've got great food in Paris."

-x-

Booker wonders what's wrong with him to feel so anxious. During the days, the city runs as any other does and during the nights the streetlights are lit and everything seems to take on this angelic—as Elizabeth so often called it, _magical_—air. The birds were singing, the sun was shining and everything was as good as they could be.

He absolutely despised it. Everything being so _wonderful_ could only mean that everything was going to come crashing down. There were no happy endings, not for people like him, and this house of cards is just poised to fall. He only hopes it won't fall on Elizabeth as well.

So often he watches Elizabeth wander from vendor to vendor with the protectiveness of an attentive parent and finds himself reaching to his hip for a pistol that wasn't there any time he felt anyone got just a little too close to her. She would glare at him from a distance, knowing what he was thinking before returning to her browsing as he aggressively took bites of his breakfast.

"Monsieur?"

"Hmm?" Booker responds, his mouth still stuffed with whatever it is Elizabeth had ordered for him. He still can't read these French menus, so most of the time she orders for him without him caring much for what it is he's supposed to eat. A stream of syllables and a few recognized words pour from the waiter's mouth, and Booker doesn't even pretend to comprehend. Instead he tosses money at the table and stands, walking out of the patio of the diner to join Elizabeth in the market.

His stomach feels like it falls several inches when he can't find her bobbing mop of black hair among the sparse crowd populating the market.

"Elizabeth?" He calls, already feeling his heart rate skyrocket as he starts to shove past the people standing in his way, "_Elizabeth!_" He's panicking with alarming intensity, his blood pounding in his ears as he searches every stand along the way to find her. Then he hears the scream. He hasn't heard her scream too many times in his life, but he recognizes it instantly and again he reaches to his hip for a gun that she had forced him to leave in the hotel room. The fact that he has no weapon to defend Elizabeth with frightens him, only heightening his panic higher as he bounds towards where he'd heard the scream originate from.

"Elizabeth!" He's calling her name like a desperate prayer, the pressure from running making his joints ache but he can't find it in himself to care about the pain. "Elizab—" Another scream echoes through the market, but now he recognizes it as more of a squeal.

"Booker!" She grins up at him from her seat on the cobblestone ground, a small monkey perched on her shoulder as it tugs on small strands of her hair in an attempt to braid it, "Isn't it cute? It's a monkey! He's got a monkey as a pet, and he does tricks!" She stands, gently picking up the creature around its torso and waist, offering it to Booker who merely eyes it skeptically.

"I thought you were in trouble." He responds before taking it and handing the beast back to its owner. He grabs Elizabeth's arm and drags her along behind him, trying to slow his pounding heart and calm his adrenaline. His body relates adrenaline so much with the grip of a gun that his right hand grips at the air out of habit, his index finger twitching. But what truly scares him isn't the compulsive need to bare some sort of firearm, but the need to bare it for _her_.

His need to keep her safe has become such an all-consuming fire that its begun to worry him. He wants to keep her safe to such an extent that locking her in a tower has almost made sense at his darker moments. That is what truly makes him fear for his sanity.

"Booker, what's wrong? I know I worried you, but I'm fine! Why can't you ever have _fun_?" He refuses to speak to her, not while his adrenaline is so high and he's so on edge, "Talk to me!" She yanks her hand from his grip and he spins around to face her immediately, such intensity in his gaze that it causes her to stagger backwards from him. His green eyes blaze darkly in a way that she's only seen in one other horrible man.

"I have to keep you safe." Her own eyes darken in response and she reaches forward to wipe the bead of blood off his upper lip.

"You're bleeding."

-x-

A/N: Guess who doesn't really have a plot but really wants to write about Booker having to deal with pain and aging and arthritis and pastel shirts it's me. Don't ask me the time line in relation to the game because I don't even know man I know most of the game happened but not the ending because it was sHITE. Might continue idk. ~Palladium


End file.
